Fluorescent Letters
by Aegle
Summary: She’s got her head resting on his arm, and she’s humming a song he’s never heard. Oneshot.


**_Fluorescent Letters_**

_Disclaimer:_ Tedious things, these are.Well, I neither own nor make profits from Rowling's characters. No copyright infringment intended, and all of that rubbish.

_Author's Note: _They make a fine pair, these two.

_

* * *

_

_room for me  
and us  
and them standing outside doors  
waiting  
let's go out the window  
and run through the streets_

She's got her head resting on his arm, and she's humming a song he's never heard, will never hear, because it's from the world of Younger. It's warmer now, and the blankets have been discarded for cool sheets, carelessly draped and hanging over curves and sprawled limbs. He isn't sleeping, but he lets his eyelids close nonetheless. Perhaps, he thinks, they were loud. Such a scandal. But she's tracing absurd patterns on his skin with soft fingertips, and he forgets uncast charms for feel, touch, humming.

Linens rustle, and she perches on top of him, forcing him to open his eyes.

"Want to get out of here for a bit?"

"Mm, and go where?"

"I don't know." She grins, cheeks still flushed, and he considers telling her that he's perfectly fine like this, but she continues, "Someplace with music. I feel like music." And then she's humming again, leaning forward and kissing him lazily while early evening sun filters into his bedroom. When he can think again, the light has changed from yellow to burgundy, and she's already slipping out of the bed.

tea,  
her eyes are green  
tonight  
and he smiles

She's going to Middlesbrough in the morning, and he'll be frittering away time in London, pouring over meticulously plotted maps and eliminating more dots with a sharp quill stroke. These days, his work for the Order is mostly spent in the library, chasing leads that never _lead_ anywhere. And she's got the Ministry. But it's only eleven, and they've hours to kill, and he doesn't have to do any Death Eater hunting tonight. He watches her watching the quiet strumming of a guitar on a small wooden stage, and wonders who'll she sleep with while she's away. It is while he ponders this that she glances at him, and in this light her teeth remind him of the Cheshire cat, pearly in the smoky room.

"Some people crave food after sex," he tells her, pausing to light up a cigarette, "and you're hungry for music. Why is that?"

She puts her elbows on the table, studying his face. "Those things will kill you, you know."

"And I'll be dead long before they get the chance. Now answer the question."

Another smile. A shrug. "Because. I don't know. There's no grand philosophical reason behind it."

"Ah, you'll have to do better than that. I bought your drink and all I get is a half-arsed explanation?"

He takes another drag, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not looking for philosophy, Nymphadora. I get plenty of bollocks theories from Dung on a regular basis. Thinks he's going to unravel the universe eventually, with the aid of Ogden's and a good buzz."

"All right then." She lays her hands out on the table, leaning forward a bit. "Why do I want music? I'm a sensualist. There you have it. Quick and painless."

"A sensualist, but not a romantic."

"Right-o."

"Clumsy."

"Yes."

"You kicked me, the other night, while you were sleeping."

"It was probably on purpose." Her eyebrow arches. "You're analyzing me, Lupin."

"Observing."

"Am I that interesting?"

"Not particularly, but I can't very well just get up leave you here, can I?"

She laughs, raising her hand as if to strike him and he prevents it by catching it with his own.

"Careful, animal cruelty."

"Sod off, Remus."

He smiles, and doesn't bother to release her hand where it now rests on the rickety tabletop.

_fluorescent letters  
and this is-  
laugh with me  
and this is-  
now, here,  
(tut tut, looks like rain)  
and this _is

"He never brought you around, like he did James." 

They're strolling past lit shop fronts, and his hands are shoved into his pockets as they go from shadows to harsh colors and back again. It's darker along this stretch, and suddenly he looks sixteen instead of thirty-six, until they pass a wide window and the reflection shows a man, not a boy. Bright light never lies, he thinks.

"James was his best mate."

"But you were-"

"A friend. I wasn't James Potter."

"Just as well. They were such prats, those two." She is in a gentler mood that he's seen in some time, and she tugs a little on his shirt sleeve, so that his hand finds hers. When he looks at her questioningly she shrugs, a trait that's grown common over the last few months.

"Let's just pretend, for a while, yeah?"

He doesn't fish for a better answer. What they're pretending, he isn't sure. That they're a normal couple on the street heading home, that they're in love, that she isn't leaving in a few hours, that sex is something slightly more than therapy. But he's game, as long as she is. And he'll pretend, for now.

_-fin-_


End file.
